


Hypnoctober Day 19

by birdginia



Series: Hypnoctober 2018 [19]
Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Cock Warming, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Hypnotism, M/M, Virus and Trip's Bad End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia
Summary: (prompt - cock warming)"Virus taught you tricks, didn't he?"





	Hypnoctober Day 19

**Author's Note:**

> happy November! I actually finished 22 fics during october, I'm just posting them as my lovely beta is finishing making them readable. I'm still planning on doing all 31, hopefully before the year is over. anyway here's part two of my "holy shit I forgot about dmmd" period. (there are only two parts, don't worry)

"Virus taught you tricks, didn't he?" Trip asks, leading Aoba to his study.

Aoba blinks, not sure if he should answer—or, if he should, how.

"He's way better at that shit than me, so I didn't bother trying. Just wondering how far he's gotten."

Aoba starts to speak, then stops himself, unsure of the rules of the current game. He’s never sure when he’s passed off from one to the other. Trip is always more likely to elaborate on his questions if he actually wants answers, and is quick to decide whether "pets don't speak" is a rule in effect today, so silence is a safe bet. 

Trip doesn't look angry after a few more seconds of silence, and Aoba relaxes ever so slightly. 

"Y'know, like," Trip continues, "Sit."

It's an easy enough order, Aoba's almost grateful for it, going to his knees and sitting back on his heels. Trip gestures under the desk, and Aoba crawls under, familiar with the space. 

"Stay," Trip says, and Aoba doesn't move. Simple. Unambiguous. These are good days.

Trip sits down in front of Aoba, but doesn't immediately start undoing his slacks like Aoba expects. Instead, he leans down, grabs Aoba by the chin, and looks him in the eye. 

" _Down._ "

Aoba's vision swims, his shoulders slump, and his head would drop forward if it weren't still held in place. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear the word echoing, in Virus' voice, but he can’t—doesn't want—doesn't _need_ to remember why it sends him spiraling into a state of barely-there consciousness.

Trip lets out a low whistle. "Damn. He did a number on you, huh?"

Aoba can barely hear him, content to just sink into the feeling of his mind and body going soft and malleable, completely open and yielding as Trip stuffs his half-hard cock down Aoba’s throat. Even if the two of them hadn't long trained Aoba's gag reflex out of him, it feels like it could have still gone in with perfect ease, in this state.

Aoba starts to suck and lick on pure muscle memory, but Trip holds him gently as far as he can go and still breathe, and says " _Stay,_ " in that same calm, commanding tone that sent Aoba into perfect compliance. But this time it's a more physical order, and one that Aoba can easily obey, as long as Trip doesn't cut off what little air he can still get through his nose.

But Trip doesn't touch him any further, doesn't move at all except to shuffle a few things around on the desk, and then he starts talking.

"Hey, it's me. Yeah, I'm calling to check in on..."

It's not directed at him, so Aoba tunes the words out, letting any last shred of concentration slip from his mind in favor of peaceful emptiness.

It's not like the box, or even like being left alone in the house while Virus and Trip are working. There's no sense of fear and isolation and constantly waiting for what comes next. Instead, it's like sitting in a warm bath with nothing better to do, completely content in the moment with no obligations but to keep himself from drowning. Or, in this case, moving at all.

At some point, Aoba is dimly aware of Trip hanging up the phone, and he hears the scratching of pen on paper instead. He still hasn't touched Aoba since putting his cock in him, not offering so much as a single shallow thrust into his throat—though he is fully hard now.

The silence stays constant for a long while, Aoba has no idea how long, but he's suddenly jarred out of it when he feels Trip's foot rest against his cock. 

It doesn't move, doesn't kick or stroke, just sits there, the same way Trip's cock is still just resting in his mouth. It could almost seem like an accident. 

That is, until he hears the slap of a notebook closing, and Trip's foot does start to move, the toe of his shoe pressing tiny circles just above Aoba’s balls. It should be uncomfortable, the slight pain breaking through the quiet peace Aoba’s been floating in, but even that settles into background noise, not interfering with his stillness at all. He barely even notices his own cock start to fill.

Then, Trip starts to move his hips, and grabs Aoba's hair—gently, he knows, or it would be considered gentle with any other person’s hair, but to Aoba it feels like the shock of suddenly being slammed against something, and it's enough to snap him out of it. He doesn't struggle, knows better than that, but he can't stay still anymore, and pulls off Trip's cock to take a much-needed gasp of air.

"Damn it," Trip grumbles, and his grip tightens, making Aoba wince in pain. "Maybe he didn't do as good a job as I thought."

Aoba waits, almost hopes that Trip will do whatever it was that made him feel so at ease, so warm and calm, but the order never comes, just Trip's cock shoving roughly back down his throat, the grip on his hair never letting up as he moves Aoba's head wherever he wants it.

"Gotta admit, it was pretty nice for a while," Trip says, and he digs his foot into Aoba's cock a little harder. "But I think you're tighter like this." He shoves in all the way to the hilt, pulling Aoba’s head against him, and Aoba can't breathe, can't struggle, can only wait and wonder if today is the day Trip decides to let him die.

Trip wipes up one of the tears streaming down Aoba's face, and licks it off his thumb. "Yeah. Cuter, too."

Trip lets him breathe for barely a moment before he pulls Aoba back down, over and over again until there's spots at the corners of his vision and there's saliva spilling all the way down to his chest. "Fuck—“ Trip grunts, pulls at Aoba's hair hard enough that a scream builds in his throat as some of it tears out, and that must do Trip in, as he groans and comes so far down Aoba's throat he can't even taste it, can't fight Trip's hold on him at all to cough any up. 

He releases Aoba agonizingly slowly, refusing to let go of his hair until his cock’s completely free of Aoba’s mouth, leaving him gasping and coughing.

Trip shoves Aoba backwards, nearly banging his head on the top of the desk, and brings his entire foot down on Aoba’s cock. It hurts, but having the freedom to move again lets him wriggle enough to ease the cramps forming in his legs, which he spreads wider to accommodate Trip.

“Yeah?” Trip teases, pressing a little harder. “You’re that worked up from taking care of me, huh?” 

Aoba doesn’t answer—silence has been allowed so far, he’s not going to risk it now—but he does let out a moan when Trip’s shoe drags at the head of his cock in just the right way. 

“C’mon, go ahead,” Trip says, and pulls his leg back a little, watching Aoba follow him desperately. “Let me see it.”

Aoba shifts his angle the best he can, until Trip’s foot is in just the right spot that Aoba feels his whole body heat up, and he trembles through a weak, exhausted orgasm. He barely even feels the usual burn of humiliation as Trip points at his soiled shoe, prompting him to clean it up.

He’s content to let muscle memory and habit guide him for as long as they can. Maybe, if he’s lucky, one of them will let him go still and quiet again.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is over at [@Slotheyyyyy](https://twitter.com/Slotheyyyyy). check out my very important thoughts and opinions on fucking, and @ me with any of yours!


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